Brotherhood
by Larxenethefirefly
Summary: "Two brothers; not in blood, but by bond." Watson and Sherlock introspective, both reflecting on what the other means to them. Two-shot.
1. John

Inspired by the quote from the recent movie: "Two brothers; not in blood, but by bond." Seeing as how I love the book series, I simply had to write this.

This is in Watson's POV. Sherlock's should be coming in... oh... a few days, if I'm lucky. A week at most.

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><p>Mary often told me that Holmes has done me more damage than my time in the army ever did. I am inclined to agree. Though she said this somewhat crossly when I came home exhausted and drunk off of adrenaline, I knew that she meant it out of jest. She admired the man just as much as I do. Holmes has made his mark on me- and Mary- and I have the various scars and memories to prove it. Though I bear this burden proudly, there have been times where I have imagined my life differently. I ask myself: What if I hadn't met the man I now call my best friend? Would I have still met Mary, only under different circumstances than those which we were entangled? Would my own life be oppressively boring without the excitement and mystery that seemed to gravitate toward Holmes? Would I be different? I could spend another lifetime asking myself these questions and more, attempting to answer them with little progress. Even if I did take the time to consider them seriously, I know that the effort would be useless; that is not what happened, and there is no use in trying to change it now. Holmes would no doubt mock me in that sly way of his, or give some philosophical quote before moving on to more important things. Though this has on occasion driven me mad, I know now that is simply his way of offering advice where it is due (or changing the topic). Now, I believe myself an equal sparring partner where words are involved, and we are equal victors in a verbal contest. Though he goes to great pains to hide this, I know he enjoys the exchanges. After being around him for so long, I have learned how to read him like a book.<p>

I hadn't always understood him. There was a time where his moods and actions mystified me greatly, and it was pet project of mine to understand him. When we first met, Holmes seemed to be a likable enough fellow, if a bit queer; I failed to see the significance of identifying blood stains. I congratulated him nonetheless, since it seemed to be the proper thing to do, but upon getting to know him better, I found that his character ran much deeper than that. It became a sort of obsession, trying to figure out this strange character with which I lived with when I was particularly bored or feeling somewhat contemplative. It was easy to see that Holmes was a smart as a whip, active, hungry for knowledge that suited his purposes, secretive, and yet prone to fits of depression and sloth. He was a stickler for personal hygiene, and yet his rooms had a tendency to collect clutter whenever he was between jobs or when a scientific experiment took hold. The violin was also a strong point of his, for he was as talented as any professional and could improvise at will. Sometimes, I felt that he understood me far faster and more in depth during the first few weeks of our living arrangement than I gathered in several months time.

As time went on, however, I began to understand him until gradually I knew him as well as I knew myself. Holmes and I, when I looked past the outward expressions and interests, were a lot alike. We both had a sense of adventure, and perhaps a mental illness that made us think that getting tangled in murder and crime while butting heads with England's most notorious criminals was perfectly sane and healthy. There was also a fragility about him that was also echoed in me. For all his bravado, egotism, and brilliance, he needed companionship, and someone who was willing to listen without comment or scorn. We both had experienced things that we did not want to share, and sensing something dark within each other, we helped each other with those experiences. Mine, of course, were of the horrors of war; his were not so pronounced, but from careless comments I have gathered some kind of terror that comes from him being alone. His solitary existence before meeting me had been bred out of years of practice; but as soon as I agreed to be his lodging partner that old fear of loneliness overtook him once more.

We suited each other. I was his foil; a Fortinbras to his Hamlet. I didn't judge his methods and eccentrics, simply accepted him as who he was and provided support should he need it. For a time, I did wonder why he put up with me, since I was so woefully incompetent in deductive reasoning. I once considered the probability that he allowed me to come simply to feed his ego. I was, so to speak, the admiring and praising audience that he never got from the general public. This theory was also coupled with others, among which included the idea that he simply had me around because of a whim, or that he didn't want me around at all and simply put up with my presence (This viewpoint changed in later years; when we got used to each other, I was his bodyguard, and the one man he could rely on to watch his back, who wouldn't fail him at the last moment). Even now I am not entirely certain why he has still honored me with his invitations. That knowledge is strictly his, and should he ever wish to tell me, he will. I have no desire to pressure him into revealing something he has no intention of unveiling. He'll get around to it in his own time.

His habit of hiding information has, upon occasion, nearly driven me mad with confusion and frustration. Though after a crime is over it is magnificent to hear him lay out the story so simply, I daresay it would have been much safer on many occasions had he told me what he knew outright, even if the mystery and awe of the adventure faded. Yet to approach him with this concern is impossible. Holmes, for all his devotion to crime, has a taste for the dramatic and would have simply ignored me had I asked what he was looking for. I have often said that the theatre has missed a wonderful actor in Holmes, and I stand by that logic today.

I'm not completely oblivious to his methods, though. It's nearly impossible to not pick something up after such a long acquaintance, and there have been multiple occasions where he has trusted my judgment and observations enough to include my own facts in his musings and theories. I am still nothing like Holmes and never will be, but it's a comfort to know that my best friend trusts my skills while in the field. I certainly trust him enough to place my life in his hands continuously, and there is no stronger bond than that of complete and utter trust between two souls.

Holmes, if he ever read this, would most likely be scoffing at my sentimentality, yet only I would see that soft gleam in his eyes that would deny his words. No matter what he says, I know that he does not regret our relationship. If he did, our friendship would have ended years ago, and not allowed to grow. For all his logical, calculating mindset, I am pleased to say that he has come a great deal since the first moment I met him. It is true that Holmes has made me more scientific, but it is also true that I have made him more human.

Humanizing Holmes… I had once thought that it wasn't possible, that he would be a machine until whatever fate came to him. I see now that I was wrong. Looking back now, I can see the clues that I had so easily missed no doubt because of my own study of human psychology and Holmes's methods as well. Even from the beginning, he was still capable of laughter, smiles, anger, excitement, all those simple human emotions that he can never destroy, despite his wishes. Making him laugh was more difficult than making him annoyed, yet he always relaxed around me easier than he did around others. I never questioned why; he simply did. Knowing that I could at least soften those rigid barriers that he had constructed made me feel useful and mildly happy. I put forth an effort to let him know that around me, he didn't need to be rigid, calculating, and precise. I didn't need facts, only companionship, and he needed to realize that was all he needed, too. Facts could only get someone so far. Support carried them the rest of the way. And that is what I became; his support. With him, I discovered a purpose. Rather than a crippled army doctor who practiced medicine to survive, I became the right-hand man of a consulting detective, protecting himself from his enemies as well as his mind, offering help when needed. I became anything he wanted me to be. Then, same as now, I never went against his orders. Oh yes, I questioned them, and we had a glorious number of arguments about them, but I always gave in, just as he knew I would. When I wasn't his partner, I was his conscious, and when I wasn't the words of reason I was his protector. By my influence, one that I never realized I was exerting, Holmes changed. He laughs more, smiles more, feels more, loves more.

Love. Now that's a word I never included in Holmes's laundry list of traits. Conceited, yes. Brilliant, yes. Talented, observant, analytical . . . yes, yes, and yes. Loving? I surprise myself sometimes.

Though, it isn't that far-fetched of a concept. There is always _the_ woman- Irene Adler- that has intrigued Holmes more than any member of the opposite sex, and has so captured his attention. Partly this is due to the shock of her actually outsmarting him, but also because he saw something of himself in that fair lady's personality. I wouldn't say he loves her, but he certainly admires her gumption and spirit so akin to his own. In another timeline, they would have been soul mates.

Holmes is not partial to love- when I announced my engagement to Mary, he was downright miserable and surly, though I believe it had to do more with the anticipation of boredom for a few weeks rather than my happy news- but that has not stopped him from being emotionally attached to different crimes and clients. There was the one episode with Openshaw when he unknowingly sent the young man to his death, and only the _Lone Star_'s untimely destruction spared his targets the great pain of having Holmes as Openshaw's avenging angel. Then there was the case where he inadvertently killed Dr. Roylott, who had murdered his own stepdaughter with a swamp adder to keep her inheritance money for himself. In both these cases, he was emotionally tied to the situations at hand- one for pride, the other out of sheer disgust- but it went against his claim to be emotionally attached lest his feelings get in the way of his judgment. Wisely, I have kept this revelation to myself. Any attempt to broach the subject would have ended unpleasantly, and perhaps traumatize my friend in a way I cannot fathom. It is quite possible that Holmes has realized this himself, but I would rather let him approach this topic in his own way. Perhaps one day, when we are old and senile and roomed together in a hospital, I could ask him and get a straight answer.

And yet, as much as he denies it, Holmes does love. Not in the way that Mary and I loved each other; not in the way that parents love children, or vice versa; not in the way someone loves a favorite pet; it is a more subtle, appreciative kind of love, like the feeling an artist gets upon perfecting a painting, or a violinist upon drawing the bow across the strings. Barely recognizable, it thrums just below the surface, devoted mostly to his profession, but with a small sliver set aside for those who truly understand him.

This type of love, reserved for those who accept him and those he allows to know him, is perhaps the greatest gift anyone can receive. I am not so bold as to claim all of it, yet I know that Holmes does truly care for me. Though I know he considered me more of a burden than an asset in the early days of our acquaintance, I am now his only friend, and in some ways closer and more understanding than his brother.

Now, do not misunderstand me. Holmes cares for and appreciates Mycroft more than I can understand, for they are so very similar in intelligence and reasoning that it would be impossible for them to not get along. Mycroft is Holmes' reserve, the person he goes to when things just aren't adding up. The brothers respect each other immensely, and I have had the honor upon visiting and talking to him many times in the past. Had I been blindfolded during the conversations, I would have easily mistaken him for Holmes; it is perhaps a good thing that Mycroft did not choose the same profession as his younger brother, for if he had, there would be virtually no business at all since the brothers would have rooted out every crime ring known and unknown to mankind in Europe.

Should I dare include myself with these two? Should I dare consider that I am at least equal to Mycroft, or perhaps higher, in Holmes's affections? I do not know, but I can say this: Holmes has far surpassed my own late brother in affection, and there could be no other who I would proudly call my own blood.

Holmes has not only become my best friend, he has become my brother; not by blood, but by bond. We have been through so much that would have shattered ties between anyone else, but somehow, we became closer. When I first realized this fact, I nearly stumbled from shock (Mary, who has the honor of actually pointing this out to me, had merely laughed at my expression; though my heart still aches at the thought of those times, I am glad that she was in my life, no matter how short a period it was). After I saw the truth of the matter, however, I knew that there was no denying it. Holmes was – is- my brother.

We bonded quicker than I ever thought possible. We were opposites in nearly every way and yet . . . and yet, we worked so well together. I think he needed someone there for him, no matter how much he often says otherwise. His powers at deduction are so vast I can never hope to equal them, but I don't want to be. I am content to be on the sidelines, watching the mystery enfold, scribbling in my journal as Holmes crawls about on the floor seeing the details I can't. True, there was a time that I fancied myself catching up to Holmes, but now I know that is a useless effort. I may never know my true role in those affairs, but it was worth it nevertheless.

To think that Holmes would consider a broken, haunted army surgeon as a flatmate, let alone a best friend, still blows my mind. I am not nearly as smart as him, and yet, he prefers my company to others of his acquaintance. I am not as smart as Mycroft, nor can I give him cases like Scotland Yard. I can't cook and clean like Mrs. Hudson, nor can I give him the thrill of a chase like a criminal. I can only offer my weak assumptions and attempts and deduction, and yet when I do, I see a look in his eyes that is far fonder than those he gives any of the others.

Perhaps I underestimate myself. If Holmes hadn't wanted me to be on his cases, then I wouldn't have been there. Perhaps what he needed was companionship, or a reason to depend on someone else for a change, someone else who will be there when no one else is; one who would remind him of limits when he forgets. One who wanted to be with him for who he was, not simply used him when they needed to.

And that, I suppose, was my role. His friend, his support, his confidante, his conscious, his partner-in-crime. A brother. One who never would abandon him, even when the end was near. He knew I had his back, just like I knew he had mine. I may not be as smart, as observant, or as scientific, but that hardly mattered in the long run. He cared for my strengths. How I didn't buckle under pressure, how I could keep my cool and hold my own in a fight. The way I was deadly accurate with a pistol, even if I never shot to kill another human being. He could depend on me to be there if he needed or wanted me to accompany him, staunch and loyal to the end. This is what truly mattered to him, what he needed, and I am more than happy to give him my loyalty and friendship.

After all, isn't that what brothers do? Help each other out in trouble, stand beside them when the whole world has gone wrong, and offer advice and opinions even if it isn't wanted?

Yes. Sherlock Holmes is my brother, as I am his. And I could not think of a better honor to have.


	2. Sherlock

I was going to update this yesterday. Then I looked at my file, and realized that it wasn't completed, and worse, remembered that the fully finished one was on my high school account... which is now gone since I graduated. Ugh. So I typed up a quick ending, winced at how the other one was way better, and crossed my fingers in the hope that you'll still like it anyway.

So, Holmes's POV on John. He was, in a way, easier to write because I knew what I wanted to do, but he was also harder, because he's so complex.

Hope I did him justice...

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><p>Subject: A young man, around my age, walking with a cane and a limp.<p>

Analysis: There is stiffness in his left shoulder which points to a wound of some kind that also exists in the right leg. A brown face and white wrists shows that he has spent some time in the sun, and his stiff, neat, formal appearance shows that he has been in the military- no doubt where the wounds have come from. Yet there is softness in his eyes that did not speak of the soldier, but of a doctor. Wounded in the line of duty, and discharged honorably from Afghanistan. He has been wounded in spirit as well, however, for the haggard, haunted look on his face and thin, unnatural weight shows that battle did not do him any favors.

I do not pity him. He chose his own life, and there is nothing I can do now to persuade him on a different course.

The above picture, admittedly, isn't a flattering picture of Watson, yet I shall always remember it clearly in my mind. To think that our companionship developed from such strange and whimsical beginnings is remarkable in its entirety, for I never did imagine myself to know this man for so long and on such intimate of terms. I had merely regarded him as an extra hand in finance while my career developed further, but now I know that I should have known better. After all, no ordinary fellow could be a continual interest to me, even if Watson was precisely that when we first met. Brown hair streaked with dark gold, brown eyes, sturdy and of average height gave little to distinguish him from others. But his mind, his soul, his heart, is what set him apart from everyone else. He had compassion for everyone, even men who would have happily killed him had they been allowed to. Though he was no great logician, he had a practical and sensible knowledge that curtailed my more extreme thoughts. His ordinary features hid a strong, stout constitution, one that did not fail in the face of danger nor abandon loyalty when the odds were against him. A better man I have yet to meet.

Funny how I, who prides myself on my observation and deduction facilities, failed to deduce what was most important on that first fateful day of our acquaintance.

Watson, however, was not a difficult man to figure out. He was simple, practical, and methodical in his ways, and although he had the occasional nightmare of his time in Afghanistan (I never relayed this information to him, for he would no doubt be horrified that I could hear his cries even all the way downstairs), he was an easy man to live with. He was quiet, stayed out of my way, and put up with my eccentrics. The violin soothed him, my (then-secret) work intrigued him, and my ways puzzled him. His leg and arm ached during bad weather, more due to his malnourishment and the last traces of a previous sickness (and perhaps of his own preference and volition) than otherwise, and he seemed as skittish and nervous as a kitten in large crowds when he did persuade himself to go outside for some sunlight. He seemed equally content to sit in his chair as well as eager to rejoin civilization again, so the two conflicting emotions settled on deciphering me from the safety of his armchair. I didn't necessarily mind, as he didn't ask questions and let me be. In a way, it was refreshing, for I worried that he would be a nosy busybody that was bent on making my life more insufferable than the half-wits from Scotland Yard. I was mildly surprised that he thought himself worthy enough (more like stubborn enough) to figure me out.

Even back then, he was always writing in that battered, worn brown leather notebook that seemed to be permanently glued to his pocket or his hand. I do not know what he was writing at times, but I knew exactly when he was writing about me- his curious, quick glances in my direction, the way he questioned about my knowledge and skills, his attempt at subtly going through my books and papers. This was common even when he confined himself to his chair, but more so whenever Lestrade or a client came to visit. My social life seemed to interest him no small degree, for he assumed correctly that I was hardly a social person.

Asking him to join me during our first adventure was, admittedly, a test. He intrigued me in his own way, for I wanted to see if there was a side of the doctor that I had overlooked. And indeed there was. He kept up admirably, physically if not mentally, and did not get in my way. He trusted my judgment, and didn't back down in a fight. Seeing him and Lestrade haul Hope away from the window, putting forth a valiant effort even with his sickly countenance, made me realize that the good doctor had a stout heart and a brave soul. I didn't hesitate again upon asking him to join me.

The first test had been passed with flying colors, and after that Watson was no longer an unfortunate army surgeon whose mental health worried me. Now that he had a purpose, he recovered much more swiftly than I had anticipated. That purpose varied daily- nursemaid, listener, biographer, gunman, companion- but one thing remained the same: His compassion and ever so useful practical nature and common sense (not to mention his obvious skill with a gun; even I couldn't hit a target dead center every shot). He had a far better head on his shoulders than any of those at Scotland Yard, and as I soon realized a fast learner as well. He never will gain the natural instinct for deduction that I and Mycroft have, but that is not from a lack of trying, nor from a lack of encouragement on my part. He is too emotional, too romantic, and too keen on the idealistic and not the realistic. It infuriated me- and still infuriates me- to think that he had ruined a lesson in deduction and lost it amid excess frippery and sentimentality. And yet, I cannot help but agree that without the extra income from his stories, my fame and therefore my clients would have been reduced, and our funds would not be nearly as large in reserve as they are now. Watson would have been working more at his practice and unable to join me as often, and I would have no legitimate excuse short of giving in to emotionalism for him to accompany me. And, in a way, the stories amused me. It was always an interesting study, seeing how romantic frivolities could so warp and obscure the lessons that were evident in my investigations.

Ah, Watson. A more singular and unique man I have never met- I fully expected him to bail upon our living arrangements before I did, and you can imagine my surprise and amusement when he didn't. Hidden under his gentlemanly, kind, inquisitive, romantic nature is a man of steel, fire, and bravery. The average looks and temperament on the outside hide the true being within.

As our companionship developed, I found myself enjoying his company more and more, unwilling- or unable- to picture him somewhere else. When he met Mary, I admit to feeling somewhat . . . jealous, perhaps, though more resigned. I had known that it was only a matter of time. It would be he who left me, though I had not imagined it to be in that fashion. Up until the actual day of his wedding, he was more than willing to accompany me on more cases and problems, and out of thanks I took him out to the opera for one last performance before his bachelorhood ended. After that, it was simply fear that kept me away.

I saw the changes that Mary made in him, changes I could never hope to make nor even come close to achieving even if I had tried. With me, he became stronger with a purpose, but now he had a reason. Mary, had she known just how much he was wrapped around her finger, and had she been of a different temperament, would have been able to get him do anything up to and including die for her had she wished it. I had seen the ruin of many a man in this situation, but Mary was not like the other woman. She and Watson were of the same mind, sweet, giving, caring, and open. They both had a taste for adventure, and she was equal to Watson in her logical skills and had a sense of forethought and practicality that the others of her gender were lacking. With her, Watson was more alive than he ever seemed in Baker Street; only the sense of excitement that he felt while on a trail seemed to equal that eagerness. Now, he had that feeling whenever Mary was on his mind- which was every hour of every day. He had no use for me. Mary was his life, now.

My work, as you know, is my life. And if Watson was not a part of my work, he wasn't a part of my life. The thought, of course, unsettled me. Watson was the first person outside my brother who I trusted implicitly, and when he left, I felt like I had been abandoned, betrayed, and forgotten. The realization of this was . . . unsettling. I tried to fight it, of course, but my adventures weren't nearly as exciting or satisfactory without Watson there to bounce ideas off of, or to portray that perfect balance of amazement and pride. And he was proud of me, although his pride was mostly misdirected. Though I would never admit this to anyone, especially Watson, it is because of him that I stayed in this business for so long. For although I always said the work itself was the reward, after a time, I was frustrated that I wasn't given credit. It was I who did all the work, who found and drew the facts together, who set up the plans to capture the criminals. I was the brains behind the operation, and all I got was a thank-you and go-along-your-merry-way. I was taken for granted. And if Watson hadn't begun writing the truth of those excursions, I would have eventually stopped working with the Yard altogether; and who knows? I may have eventually killed another or myself out of sheer boredom or stupidity (Yes, I will admit to idiotic pastimes; even I fear what dangers I am capable of while in one of my 'black moods', as Watson calls them).

Eventually, I couldn't stand my good Boswell's absence any longer. I had frequently caught myself turning to speak to him, only to realize with a start that he wasn't by my side. Lestrade, to this day, swears that I occasionally asked a question directed to Watson, seemingly unconsciously, for I did not act as if anything was wrong nor did I mention it afterwards. I deny this. I am in complete control during my work, and I would have known if I had asked something of Watson- I would have wondered why he was silent, since he is always so prompt as to put forth an opinion. His absence, however, did take its toll, and it was with great relief and something of a burden to my pride that I asked for his help once more months after his marriage. To my intense relief, he agreed to come with me.

Once more, I was privy to that excited gleam, the barely suppressed energy waiting to be expelled as we raced against time to put the criminals behind bars. His exhilaration was infective, for I, too, enjoyed the chase more than I had expected. With him there, everything seemed . . . not brighter, but different. It was as if I was on the hunt for the first time, straining at the rope, in my proper place and element. Hearing the scratch of his pen as I talked was the most welcoming sound I had heard in a long while.

With a great sense of guilt, I realized how much I had taken my biographer for granted. I had always assumed that he would always be there to watch my back, to curb my temper, to pick me out of that dark depression that haunted my unemployed hours. Even Mycroft had never achieved what he has done . . . for although I do have a familial connection of sorts with my older brother, it is only Watson who I inexplicably and utterly trust. In many ways, he became the brother Mycroft could never become.

Brotherhood. What a foreign idea so long ago, now something I couldn't live without! Here was a man who I could argue with all day and yet be laughing with just before bed, no hostilities lingering for days or weeks. We looked out for each other, supported one another, and were loyal to a fault. God help the criminal who dared hurt my Boswell; and neither Heaven nor Hell could protect the man that dared injure me in the line of duty. Watson had been placed on a pedestal that Mycroft would never dare approach, and I know that in Watson's eyes, his own blood never came close to the affection he reserved for me. Only Mary- sweet, patient, Mary- came higher. How I wish I could have been there during her funeral; how I wish I had been there for a lot of things. Moriarty is dead, and I never will regret the events that led to that conclusion; and yet, I wish that I had been able to change the events afterwards, that I could have told Watson that I was alive and well and thinking of him at every new adventure. Lying low in various foreign establishments simply didn't have the same novelty as it would have had he been there to make some effort at a joke or offer his opinion on the suspect and motive. I missed him during those dark months of running, and dearly hoped he would forgive me upon my return.

No doubt Watson would be waxing poetry over how I changed his life, but in the truth of the matter, he changed me. He made me see the importance of my career, showed me the human buried under the shell. Though I will never breathe a word of this to him, I owe everything to him. Everything.

Watson is many things- doctor, husband, author, helper, friend, soldier, marksman, nursemaid- but the most important title is that of brother. I cannot imagine life without him there to support me, to watch my back, to offer his opinions.

He is my brother. No more, no less. And that is the picture of how I will see him for the rest of my days.


End file.
